


Sun Moon Stars

by Gorrlaus



Category: Music RPF, The Cure (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Birds, Boris is unimpressed, Boys Kissing, Bullying, Drabble, Drug Use, Drunk Blow Jobs, Frogs, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, POV Alternating, Shamanism, Stream of Consciousness, Tree Climbing, Vomiting, Voyeurism, robert is jealous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2018-11-29 20:17:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11448291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorrlaus/pseuds/Gorrlaus
Summary: Summer of 1986. Simon is having angst and Porl’s in a tree.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to try a stream-of-consciuosness style of writing, but I didn't have a good muse for it, not until I watched a bunch of Cure interviews. And saw all the kissy pics floating around of Simon and Pearl. :P 
> 
> Pearl changed his name in 2012 but back in 1986 when this takes place he was still Porl
> 
> https://i.imgur.com/EL0YnLZ.jpg

\--

It’s calming to look at the colours. To study them in detail. Fuchsia orange and sky purple mingle in a whole universe of hues. There is a galaxy of broken blood vessels covering the back of my hand. Lacquer red, and yellow, and a even little bit of green at the edge.

Small supernovas on my skin.

It's hard to move. It would hurt more than keeping still. Better to remain here. Mild summer breezes carry a salty tang from the sea. The wind is picking up. It plays in the leaves, pulls at my hair. The hair band - the hair band? Canopy green up here, may green, the reflected light making the bruises fade like they are almost not there.

Porl rubs the marks on his wrist, absently ignoring Robert shouting in the distance.

—

“Simon!” What the actual fuck had he been thinking? Robert moves quickly through the hall, out in the big garden. Renting a huge country house for writing and recording had been a great idea in theory, but a lousy idea when band members went missing and one tried to locate them.

“Simon? Porl?” A movement behind the kitchen window pane, something tall and black. Robert changes course, plotting a straight line back to the house.

One found, one to go.

—

 

Yesterday evening:

Simon is drunk as a skunk. Everything is shit really; he has argued with his girlfriend, and Robert is being a right cunt, not caring that Simon was almost crying into his glass at one point, but Porl is there as always, ready to give cuddles and kisses.

The world does look better from this position; he’s comfortably shit-faced, enough to don’t give a fuck anymore and he’s half-lying, half-sitting on the bed with Porl, the length of their bodies touching. As soon as Porl had picked up on Simon’s discomfort he’d been at his side like a cuddly koala, determined to make it all better.

“It’ll be okay Simon, you’ll see. I know her; she didn’t mean it.” Porl moves his hand in comforting circles over Simon’s shoulder, mouths the words into his temple, kisses his cheek: physical contact is the cure for every ailment in Porl’s book and Simon loves him for it. He returns the affection in kind; kissing has always been something he’s good at.

Right now though the need to be comforted has abated, but he doesn’t want to stop cuddling. He wants to do more. And has been wanting to since forever; because Porl smells good; because he has brown hair and wears like eleven jumpers tied arond his waist making his bum look huge and is short and is Porl and all sorts of other reasons. Simon kisses his bottom lip, his mouth, adding a little bit of tongue. All within the boundaries of their normal behaviour. Porl hums contentedly into the kiss.

Braving it, Simon takes the plunge. A hand going down below belt level takes them right out of their cuddle zone. Spreading his fingers for maximum impact, he squeezes Porl’s bum.

The little surprised moan goes straight to his cock. Pressing their groins together, he deepens the kiss and Porl immediately opens up, welcoming and pliant, doesn’t seem fazed by this new development. Velvet tongue and sharp teeth and Porl’s arms around his neck. Oh but he’s missed this, since...

“Remember before, in the back room in...” The year and name of the city escapes him, his blood currently being occupied with more important organs than his brain, but Porl remembers; he should - after a stupid argument they had made up by making out and about 30 seconds in Simon had come all over and inside his expensive leather trousers.

“Simon…” A silky ringlet has untangled itself from Porl’s headband and curls down the side of his face. Making short work of the buttons, he slides his hands under Simon’s shirt, pushing it all the way off his shoulders.

“I want you.” Simon mumbles, rolling them over. He works on his belt and trousers while Porl pulls at his own blouse, letting it fall open like boudoir curtains. Drunkenly, he more or less falls on top of Porl, semi-naked and hard.

It’s a jumble. Surprising me. The intense way Simon always does things, my palm to his palm, fingerprints to fingerprints. The translucent skin on his wrist. Weaving our fingers together. If we are to do this again it will be now. The worry-line between his brows deepening as he bites his lower lip. I like how his mouth feels against mine. My blind hands reading his body like Braille. The time he fell down from a wall after we laid in the meadow sharing a milkshake, the scar from the stone.

His breath and my breath. Alcohol and tea.

“Bass-player fingers” I say out loud. He cackles with laughter, adorably drunk, his hard-on against mine, kisses the corner of my mouth.

“What about guitarist’s fingers then?” he quips, pawing and pulling. I assist by snaking out of my trousers, letting him toss them on the floor.

“I missed you…like this.” The way he looks down on me. I love how tall he is, hair like a black halo, majestic; beautiful.

Closing my eyes as he kisses my throat and I see the universe, my pulse against his lips beating a thousand stars per minute.

Simon nearly comes from the sight alone; Porl spread out beneath him on the rumpled sheets, flushed and wanton. So lovely. Trusting. Good thing they are in his room because no matter how drunk he is, the bottle of lube in his drawer is not forgotten. There should be just enough left.

“Is this too much?”

He says: “Does it hurt? Just tell me and I go slower". His bass-player fingers and I put my arms, legs around him. The first time. It’s strange, and it’s pain; circling, stroking, stretching. Starburst as he finds a sensitive spot. Concern on his face. My legs, arms tingle as he makes slow circles. He whispers it, mouth red and swollen with kisses Do you want to? I press up against him all pink and gold his heart is going like mad falling stars and I say yes yes yesyes yes

yes

—

Exact colours are difficult. Exact colour is a science. Who can say if we see the same colour? He ponders this as Robert’s voice drift through the din of his mind. Your blue and my blue, are they the same? Janet’s blue eyes and Simon’s brown. He wonders what his own eye colour is and decides it must be a mixture of the two - blue-brown.

—

“I get it, Simon, but you know what he’s like, you should have stuck around. Planned ahead. You know, forward thinking.”

Robert raises his arms in exasperation. From the look of him now, unshaven and eyes like an exhausted panda, Simon wasn’t in any shape or form to plan anything last night/this morning. Robert had gone to bed at 3 AM, at approximately the same moment Simon had found the bottle of Cachaça. And apparently he had also found Porl.

Simon hangs his head over the mug of really really really strong sugary coffee Boris had produced at the sight of him. “I’m such an idiot. Fuck. I shouldn’t have left him like that. I didn’t think…”

“You didn't think what?”

—

The stretch is like nothing else. Pulses of energy, him pushing inside. Pain. Hot supernova. One slow stroke and we are fully joined, weaved together into one being. His heartbeat inside me. The look on his face is new, wide-eyed as if he sees me for the first time; he is still as I reach for him, pulling him down

—

Robert has climbed up to Porl’s level, perching on the opposite branch.

“Hey there. Rough night? You look a bit overwhelmed. I know, Simon can be…intense. He can be quite a handful…or two.” Robert giggles at his own joke, then crinkles his nose in disgust because he just giggled at his own joke. His mouth looks naked without lipstick.

“What happened? Boris said you appeared in the kitchen mumbling about the universe, with bruises on your arms. You then walked out in the garden and didn’t come back. According to Simon you two did some seedy things? ”

-

Ecstasy and pain, I blister under his sun little death

—

Robert hasn’t shaved yet and his hair lies flat, finally having succumbed to gravity. He’s tired but determinated. His Janet-blue eyes sparkle in the pale morning light.

“Anyway, we really need you to come down now. Simon is very anxious to talk to you. Please. My dearest Brother-in-law. Get off yer arse or I’ll tell Janet you’ve been hiding up in trees.”

He can do this. Just climb down, complete the orbit back to the house, face the others. Stop being so weird and elevated. But there’s the bruise again with all its colours, safe in its familiarity. Fuchsia and magenta.

Robert scrapes closer along the branch as Porl turns his hand to study the pattern. Fuchsia and magenta but now something lilac appears next to it.

“I got your hairband. Look. Simon found it under his pillow.”

With the band tied in place, climbing down isn’t such a frightening prospect anymore. Sharp pain as he tries to move. Says as much to Robert.

“Oh!" Robert looks at him weirdly. " _Intense_ cuddling with Simon. I see. How did you even get up here?”

“It wasn’t as bad then.”

They both spot the approaching red-faced, hunched-over figure at the same time.

“SIMON!” Robert can be very loud when he wants to, and very straight-faced. “You banged my lead guitarist senseless with your BIG MASSIVE COCK so you better get up this tree and make nice right now!”

 

-

“I know what it looks like” Boris says to the others who have by now appeared in the kitchen, “but we are not actually having a band meeting up in that 110 feet tall beech tree. It’s just that Simon grabbed Porl too hard last night to stop him falling off the bed when they were shagging, then Porl spent all night up in the tree and won’t come down so Bob made Si climb up there to apologise and Bob said we will start again at 2 PM, even if he has to carry Porl down himself.”

The others say “Oh, ok” and then the first wine bottle for today is opened. Boris sips his coffee.

  



	2. Torpor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came about because I am insane and my brain doesn't know when to stop, and also because of two quotes from interviews where Simon massages Pearl's wrists and kisses his hair - too cute not to write about! 
> 
> I'm not sure if Robert can actually play the piano, he probably can because he's crazy talented and he has a piano genius for a sister

They meet by a poison dart frog exhibition, as you do, on what must be the hottest day in San Diego’s recorded history. The sun is blazing down over the zoological garden and Simon wants nothing more than to go inside and join the amphibians in their cool dark aquarium. He already regrets his black jeans and hat. Back at the hotel, the hat seemed like a good idea for staving off curious looks, but in reality it just makes him look like a celebrity trying to hide from exactly that, which probably make people look even more. Not that he actually thinks anyone would recognise him. It’s only one person in the group that is ever recognised in public, at least in a random place like a zoo.

He entertains the idea of nipping off to a nearby stall for a cold one, but here comes his rendezvous now, tottering towards him under a white umbrella, glittering from a multitude of gold necklaces and gemmed bracelets.

“Po - Pearl.” The heat, the people, all is forgotten in an instant. He grins like a loon, closing the distance between them with quick strides. His arms wrap around Pearl without a conscious thought and their mouths meet like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and to hell with all the other depressing and complicated issues. Simon notes that he still smells good, is still lithe and soft. “It’s been a long time. Damn, you look like some sort of voodoo priestess.”

“Priestess?” Pearl laughs, the tiny tattooed stars on his cheekbones crinkling.

“Okay, a priest then.” He nods, reluctantly letting go. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Simon.” They’re almost eye to eye; Po -, no, _Pearl_ , has become taller with the help of sandals that don’t exactly scream masculinity. The swirly skirt he’s got on looks like a much better choice for this hot day than Simon’s black jeans. It's also unapologetically feminine. Simon thinks he can see people looking at them in the corner of his eye.

“So, any top frogs you want me to see in here?”

“No. I’ve already been and the frogs are average. But they have this monkey-themed bar here that is like a jungle. Come on, I’ll show you.”

“No frogs?” Simon is elated but makes a point about sounding disappointed.

“Sod the frogs.“ Pearl smiles and takes him by the hand. “It’s you I want to talk to.”

“So you’ve been talking to frogs a lot, then?” Simon lets himself be steered down a hot concrete path, hoping the bar will be at the end of it and that the AC will be in working order.

—

Re-stringing a guitar while nurturing vile and horrible thoughts is absolutely doable. Doing it while also downing vodka shots at a decidedly alcoholic pace is possible, but the tuning does get a bit off. Robert moves the bottle away to avoid spilling it all over the guitar. Again. At least the tuning is keeping him busy. The evening rehearsals are done and it’s almost dinner time (a very late dinner, as per usual) but even the prospect of a hot meal and lots of wine doesn’t help matter much.

It’s truly disgusting how Simon has been acting all day. Sweet and attentive. Fetching the softest cushions he could find, making tea, waiting on Porl hand and foot to serve his smallest need. The object of Simon’s affections still has a bit of trouble sitting down, still looks a bit shell-shocked, but never misses a chance to smile warmly at his devoted servant. Nor the chance to cuddle up against him at the smallest opportunity.

Downing a disturbingly large part of the bottle doesn’t do anything to numb Robert’s feelings. Just makes him hiccup like a banshee. Jealousy demands at least absinth. Worst thing is that he himself is partly responsible for this chevaleresque guilt-trip of Simon’s. He’s the one who hinted about Porl’s complete inexperience with the not-so-fair-sex, and that fact that in all probability, maybe even most certainly, yesterday had been Porl’s first time with a man, if one choose to look at things in that fashion. If he’d known about the effect it’d had on Simon, he’d have pulled that card himself back in the day.

As things stood now though, it was a bit late for that.

Robert gives up on the guitar and sets sail for the drawing room. Last time he’d passed by there was half a bottle of Pierre Michel on the tv table.

But there they are; together; naturally.

Robert automatically stops on the threshold. Porl is lying on the sofa with his eyes closed, his head on Simon’s lap. Simon is ever so gently massaging his hands, his attention fixed on Porl’s face. They haven’t noticed him, so he does a u-turn back to the kitchen. Come to think of it, there’s more Pierre Michel in the cupboard too.

 

—

 

I see a big yellow frog. It has long grippy toes - sticky toes, like some frogs have. A happy, sticky frog. It’s a lemon colour, bright like a sunflower. The frog-flower shines down upon me as Simon strokes my hair. I could stay like this forever, with my head in his lap. He is a place of safety.

I have dreamt that one day, Simon and I will become enemies. After that we will talk about frogs.

The floating feeling from this morning is still present; this morning when we gave to each other and were made complete for a short while for one short moment we vibrated on the same frequency and it was wonderful. The hurt was a small price to pay - the hurt came as a surprise. I had this thought in my head: Do you mind? Do you mind I might be turning your sheets red. The stars became full of my blood, you mumbled things in my ear. But I didn’t bleed.

Eyes still closed, I fumble around and catch a bit of Simon’s mane, following the tresses downwards. I rake my fingers through Simon’s chest hair above his collar, scratching him like one would a dog.

Simon pokes my ear. “You’re such a knob Poz.”

The first time I met you it was the hot summer of ’75 we were so young then all we had was the wide-open future we couldn’t even fathom how much future. I saw you with my sister you said the same thing to her as you said to me ‘I want you. So much. Please.’ At first she was going out with Lol but not for long after you two met she said she felt it in her body like electricity. A current when you were near and she couldn’t talk to you at first because her heart was in her mouth.

I open my eyes. Simon is very sweet also from a frog perspective.

“We have to call Carol. I mean I think you should call Carol and I should call Janet. And let them know….that…” I see her face. Our love, our future, she is with me, always present. “… it happened again.”

Worry lines appear on Simon’s brow. He thoughtfully twirls one of my ringlets around his thumb. “Yeah. ‘course. I was thinking the same thing. Should call ‘em. Definitely.”

His hands are little animals in my hair. I close my eyes.

 

—

 

In the corner of his eye, Simon spots a familiar shape - Robert in the doorway, almost entering the room but apparently thinking better of it. There will probably be more looks and barbs at dinner tonight- Robert still have about an hour to 1) get even more worked up about not being the sole recipient of Simon’s attention for once, and 2) drink.

 _Yeah, well, Robert can sulk all he wants_. Simon focuses instead on gently massaging Porl’s strumming hand while watching his face, looking for any shift in his expression, his breathing. He puts some pressure on the thumb joint, works his way through tensions in the bony, blue-veined wrist, careful not to touch the bruises.

Others might say it’s sexy to have bruised someone in the throes of passion, but he just feels like a proper knob: Porl trusted him, would have let Simon do anything he desired, and what did he do? Fuck it up by holding on too hard, and then managing to bang Porl’s hand right against the corner of the bedside table. Yeah, nice going. If Porl hadn’t been able to play at rehearsal tonight, the others would have rolled Simon in tar and feathers and put him on the next bus out of the county.

“So let’s call them then.” Porl murmurs. He rises from Simon’s lap, only to immediately sink back against his chest. It’s a good opportunity to kiss the part of his head where his hair has been disappearing. For good measure he continues to kiss his way down a ringlet, beginning at the scalp, all the way to the slightly frazzled end.

“After dinner maybe…” Simon mutters. “Oh wait, it’s gonna be too late, isn’t it.” The whole prospect of calling is a bit nerve-racking. Carol is going to be upset. She has accepted the things he and Robert do together as a bit of harmless fun, it’s _Robert_ after all, _Mary_ ’s Robert, but this is on a whole new, complicated level. If he squints, this could be Carol on his chest right now. Same size, same hair colour, though the brother is heavier and shows early signs of male pattern hair loss, which the sister definitely doesn’t. Also, Carol wears a bigger cup size.

The phone is almost within his reach, as it sits gleaming and black on the side table. Not too tempting, that phone. Porl’s breath tickles his neck. A whiff of food indicates dinner is fast approaching.

 

—

 

Three large gins for pudding and Robert is so ready for more rehearsal, or an argument, whatever. Lol isn’t back yet from wherever he went off to and he’s not drunk enough yet to vent on any of the others. Fuck. He’s horny, really, that’s it. He pours himself a fourth gin, generous with the ice cubes this time. Making it a proper cocktail. He adds another ice cube as garnish, picks up the glass and heads out. Having someone intrude on his and Simon’s special relationship? That is not just on, even if they all know each other.

Especially since they all know each other.

“Look at them, so cute.” Boris says when he plonks down on the couch. “Proper lovebirds they are.”

They are sitting on top of each other in the same comfy chair, because using two chairs was clearly too much bother. Simon is busy bringing Porl’s fingers to his lips, one by one, as if his hands were holy relics, kissing them slowly, gently. Porl blushes, smiling saintly down at Simon, looking like fucking Virgin Mary blessing one of the cunting disciples.

Bloody disgusting. The gin sloshes around in his brain and makes his stomach curl. _Cute. Lovebirds_.

“Just so you know, Boris, these two cheated on their girlfriends. You…” He set his sights on Porl’s diminutive form that seems to shrink even more under his gaze. “You shagged your own sister’s husband….and you cheated on _my sister_!”

Porl mumbles something inaudible, gaze fixed on the sofa table. Simon just smiles his infuriating toothy smile. “Come on Rob. I cheated on _his_ sister, so…you’re welcome.”

“You find this funny, do you?”

Simon pulls a face. “Oi, you’re absolutely smashed you are. Give us a chance to keep up?”

“This isn’t funny, Simon.” Robert bristles, feeling the liquor burn in his throat. "Have you called them yet? No you haven’t. Call them!"

“Look, we were just talking about it. We’re gonna call them.” Simon says. “Tomorrow.”

“No, now!” There was probably a time, like earlier today, to be reasonable and adult, but he passed that point many alcohol units ago. Now he just wants Janet to set everything straight. Wants her to tell them off so he doesn't have to.

“Actually…” Boris says.

Porl mumbles something that could be interpreted as “It’s half past one in the morning.”

There’s silence. The ice cubes in Robert’s glass crack. The telephone sits on the side table, untouched.

“What if I call everybody’s sisters?” Boris says.

“Oh shut it, New Guy, whatever your name is.” Robert hisses.

Boris shrugs and removes himself from the room, no doubt heading for a game of One Man Pool.

—

Next morning: the world is fresh and dewey, and full of possibilities. One strong cuppa and a phone call later; all in all Simon is feeling good about the whole thing. After the initial shock, his dear patient girlfriend had given him a proper chiding for not giving her the heads-up. She had then asked how her brother was doing. What he hadn’t expected was her moaning about why he had apparently moved on from Robert when she still hadn’t had the opportunity to watch them in action. Kind of unnerving really.

—

I shouldn’t have asked but I asked the bird and it let me occupy a part of its mind. It’s a small bird, curious, with a fluttering heart. Winged and light we fly. The morning air leaves the earth and lifts us higher to the breath of the sun. I can see the whole land, green fields and motorways and the past; Stone Age burials, tombs of dead sea captains, cut shapes, the future looming ahead. The map that birds use to find their way covers the whole sky. It stretches in all directions, from horizon to horizon.

We follow the stream behind the house, flying between water and sky. The sun blazes down on my feathered back and glints metallic-like from the mirror surface below. I'm drowsy with oxygen; so much air. The glittering surface is like a shard in my eyes. We rise and circle.

 

 

“Porl?” Robert waves, but the distance is too great. He squints at the horribly bright sun. Sunglasses are not enough on days like this. Trying to swallow down a lingering taste of hangover and toothpaste, he sets off into the garden.

The Most Annoying Person in the World is lounging topless in one of the sun chairs. Robert tries to remain in shadow while getting close enough to have a conversation, but of course Porl has moved the chair to the middle of the lawn, a lawn which might as well be a desert. Feeling like a vampire sizzling into ashes, Robert bravely steps out from the shadow.

"Oi, I'm talking to you."

"Oh." Looking startled, Porl sits up. “Sorry, I…um, dozed off.” He turns to look at the sky, then back to Robert. “Yes?”

“Did you talk to Janet?

“Yes. She…was not upset.”

 _She wasn’t?_ “She wasn’t?”

“No.” Porl blushes pink.

“Okay. Good. That’s good. What did she say?”

“She said she didn’t mind, because it was Simon and she trusts him.”

 _Oh._ “That’s very generous of her.” Janet has always been too kind for her own good. Almost a pushover. She should put her foot down. Maybe she can be persuaded to do so. He makes a mental note of calling Janet.

Porl pushes his sunglasses up on his head. “Are my eyes blue-brown?”

“What? No, I don’t think they are.” He bends down to get a proper look. Porl widens his eyes like a cartoon character, rolling them around like he’s about to have a seizure. Robert moves his head accordingly for comic effect, almost straining his neck. “They’re mostly green. A bit yellow. The corners are pink.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Sometimes he just want to shake his brother-in-law hard, bring him back from all the other weird realms he seems to co-exist in. “Why, surely you know what colours your eyes are? It’s not like you haven’t been carefully matching your eyeshadow and whatnot.”

“I was just…” Porl trails off, looking at the sky again.

As the sun slowly cooks him Medium Rare, Robert musters that little extra ounce of patience and waits for Porl to land. "What is it with you today? Doing your Daft Hippy impression again?"

The dreamy look passes from Porl's features, his mouth twisting into a sneer.

“In the Jack the Ripper murder cases they took photos of the eyes of the victims. They thought the last thing they saw might have been recorded in their eyes. My eyes change colour…and I’ve been looking into Simon’s a lot lately.”

“I don’t think that is how that works. But yes, it is a… thought.” Robert pauses. There is a weird tightening in his chest. Yet he can't help digging his nails in, wincing at the words all the same: “ What, so you’d now expect to have brown dog eyes filled with mindless fuck-lust?”

Porl twists the knife he stuck in himself. “Exactly.”

—

  
The piano notes echoes into shivers of pleasure. Robert lets the high wash over him, playing a variation of Moonlight Sonata all the while. It’s funny, but when he sat down he only intended to let off some emotional steam. Then he noted all the shiny flat surfaces a piano has to offer, so he just might as well cut a line. Nothing else to do at 3 am when everyone fucked off to somewhere and he is alone in the studio.

The buzz is pleasant, not too strong; or rather; not strong enough. His mind is still on Simon and whatever he might be doing at this ungodly hour. Normally he’d be the life of the party, or face down in a vat of alcohol, or in Robert’s bed. Since neither of these are true, this must mean that he is asleep. Or occupied elsewhere.

So: if Robert happens to take a walk around the house in the middle of the night, glancing up at the bedroom windows, it’s just to make sure Simon’s properly tucked into bed. And if he happens to note which rooms have lights on, maybe Simon's or Porl's, then that’s perfectly all right too. Because he is not checking up on his two most trusted band mates (his “yes men” as Lol likes to call them), no, but merely taking the temperature, so to speak. For the sake of the group dynamics.

-

Simon’s rooms is dark, but he can make out a faint light in Porl’s. Might as well take a little stroll in the corridor. Check so everything is ok and they’re not having nightmares.

-

It would be inconsiderate to disturb by knocking. Porl could be asleep. He could just listen in at the door. Making sure nothing was going on, and then he’d go to bed.

Or better yet. In this old mansion some bedrooms are joined with another room, but with the door between them permanently shut. He knows that the room next to Porl's is empty. The door to that room is not locked.

It’s dark as fuck at first. He carefully navigates to the adjoining door, listening for sounds. Something is going on on the other side but it’s hard to tell what it is. Muffled movements that don’t quite sound like page turning or tea sipping.

Luckily, the house is old and the woodwork doesn’t line up in all places. There’s a tiny bit of light coming through; a little gap between the door and the frame. Robert bites hit lips and leans closer, feeling like someone in an Agatha Christie novel. The crack offers a sliver of the room; a whiff of incense-scented air and warm candle light.

There are indeed candles, a whole group of them on the bedside table serving as the only light source. They illuminate Porl’s head and naked shoulders and arms, lying on his front on the bed, and Simon is just behind him. They are moving together, ever so slowly; rhythmic movements that leave absolutely no doubt as to what they are doing.

Oh.

As his eyes become more used to the glum, more details appear. There is incense too, not just the candles. It’s burning in a jar, and a bunch of flowers are crammed into another jar, and they are both very much naked, and are very much shagging. Again. He suddenly feels woozy, has to lean on the door for support. Them going on like this, it’s not right. They’re…family. He should burst in there, scream at them, cause a scene.

Or not. It’s not his business, really. He should walk away, that is what he should do. Not creeping on them like some fucking pervert.

Instead, he’s frozen to the spot, forehead pressed against the wooden surface. He can’t tear his eyes away from the expression on Simon’s face. It hurts, the familiarity of it - his slight woozy frown, his mouth half-open. And Porl like he’s never seen him - eyes closed, curly tendrils of hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, grabbing at the sheets, the headboard, and Simon stroking his neck, holding his shoulder, burying his face in Porl’s hair, and Robert thinks, _well at least they’re doing it from behind, at least Simon and I -_

Somehow his hand has found its way into his trousers. Zipping down, he feels like utter trash. It doesn’t even look like proper sex what they’re doing. It’s too slow. Too _tender._ Must be some tantric hippy cack, and besides this is immoral for fuck’s sake, he should not be getting off on seeing them together. Should not. He strokes himself helplessly as Simon says something in Porl’s ear. He desperately tries to lip-read, can almost make out the words. Porl turns his head and their mouths meet in a messy kiss. Simon cups his hand around Porl’s jaw and oh, Robert knows that gesture intimately. Something hot and dark curls in his belly, sending shivers down his spine.

Simon lets his hand travel over Porl’s flank, hitches him up so he can reach under, and now he’s doing something that’s making Porl gasp. There really should be better lighting in the room, it’s bloody hard to make out what is going on. Robert changes angle to see better, missteps and almost catches himself by grabbing the door handle, but gets leverage against the doorframe just in time to avoid a proper scene. Well, wouldn’t that have been nice. He would have had to kill them both to avoid embarrassment, and hiding the bodies would’ve been a problem.

They’re going at it faster now, Porl bracing himself against the headboard, head down, and Simon trying to pound him through the bed and it doesn’t take long before he groans and doubles over and oh fuck -

Robert bites the heel of his hand to avoid making any noise, twisting his fingers on the upstroke one last time and that’s it. He moans into his own hand as he follows Simon, trying his best not to alert them to his presence.

He doesn’t linger, doesn’t want to see the post-sex cuddling, but staggers away on unsteady legs looking for the nearest paper towel.

—

One interesting fact that nobody in the world knows but him: Robert and Porl get off on the same kind of bedroom talk. If there would be one secret he’d take to his grave, it would be this. It’s a little bit surprising, considering how different they are as people. Maybe there was something in the water in Crawley. Though he’d tried it on Carol too, and it hadn’t been a resounding success. Well, at least not the ‘whore’-part.

—

 

Simon and Robert argue in the kitchen. Their storm voices are loud enough to carry through into the corridor. It’s raining outside. I’m in the living room on the sofa, mending Boris’ trousers. There is a jumping spider on the white wall above Simon and Robert. I don’t have to ask this time, spiders are easy like that.

My new octo-vision is not designed for viewing things a long way away and the hearing is not very good either. Besides, the spider is not interested in humans and rather wants to scan the ceiling for food. I sit and wait in the white world, looking for fly movements while Robert and Simon talk with angry voices below. Robert is holding a bottle like a weapon, more out of old habit than planning or wanting to strike out. Simon is on the defensive, trying to take in Robert’s feelings and adapt his response, twisting himself into knots to please. A fly lands on the ceiling. As they reach a fragile truce and embrace, Robert is still holding the bottle. I wait for the spider to choose life or death.

 

—

 

Boris comes stalking into the room, hair going in all directions courtesy of his motorcycle helmet. “Where’s Bobcat and Dormouse?”

“Outside, having words.” Simon absently turns a page in ‘The Incredible Hulk vs X-men’. “Bobcat is a bit stingy about, well, me and Dormouse.”

Boris puts his helmet down on the table with a definite thump. “So, when are we gonna have sex then? I want to know, Simon. I’m feeling all left out here, since you’re apparently making rounds in the group…”

“Oh god, shut up!” Simon drops his head down on his arms.

Smiling beatifically, Boris goes for the jugular. “Myself and poor Lol, we’re counting the days…”

“Shudduuuuup!!”

“Hey, Simon?” A tap on his shoulder.

“NO.”

Boris pokes him in the head. “Hey, Simon?”

“Go away!” He grinds his face harder into the crook of his arm.

“Hey, Simon??”

“What??”

“I heard rumours that you’re fucking the Thompson Twins. Is it true?”

“Nooo oh my god shudduuuurp!”

—

Just in case someone missed how displeased Robert is with the latest amorous development in the group, he’s giving everyone the 100 yard death stare and the silent treatment. Rehearsals are definitely off for today, so Boris sets himself for more rounds of Solo Snooker.

After having a little talk with Robert outside, Porl has retreated to his room with a shit-load of books, and Simon’s busy pacing nervously and drinking too much, with small breaks of talking to Carol on the phone. Awesome. Boris opens a beer. It’s pouring outside so he can’t take the bike for a spin. The only thing needed to make this a perfect end of the rehearsal week would be for Lol to return and make everyone utterly miserable.

He has barely thought of it before the sound of drunken tires tear through the silence, and not for the first time he’s wondering if he is really getting paid enough.

–

The jungle bar has a gigantic mirror covering the whole wall opposite the entrance, and the counter and a couple of pillars are clad in mirror shards. It amplifies the number of real and fake plants, and the actual number of guests is not easy to make out either. A toy gorilla, almost as tall as a human, is leaning against the bar. Simon thinks this place must be difficult to navigate if drunk or high. He has strategically navigated his company well away from the door to escape the heat, and ordered the largest, coldest beer to cool his hands on. Pearl is sitting opposite him sipping a minute glass of red wine. Behind him Simon sees his own reflection in a mirror mosaic, shattered and broken up into a cloud of black.

“A jungly place, right?” Pearl gestures to the stuffed orangutan hanging from the ceiling above them. “Almost as jungly as that hotel with the tropical swimming pool, you remember, in Japan. Where they had a live cheetah? And Lol fell in the pool with his suit on.”

“Oh yeah, the poor cheetah. That was insane.“

“I’ll never forget their faces when you tried to kiss that huge stingray.”

“Oh no that was in...uh, I think it was Brazil.”

He's missed this, no, he has missed _Pearl_ so much he hasn’t even realised. Not for the first time he wishes he could go back to before, way before, when they were 15 and struggled with pub gigs and dead-end jobs. Everything was simple and they all were friends, a flock, and there were still someplace to go.

He feels a lump forming in his throat, some half-formed words lurking in there, and Pearl is regarding him with that all-wise, all-loving gaze that threatens to break his composure, but he’ll be damned if he’d start crying in a jungle-themed bar full of stuffed monkeys.

“What do you think about my Sexy Old Man look then?” They both know this is a diversion, and that diversions are allowed. He straightens up in his chair, sees the fractured reflection doing the same. “It’s way too hot though, these trousers even have leather inserts, look. What was I thinking. But they’re well sexy, right?”

He turns to the side to fully show off the side insert in the jeans, but halts when he sees Pearl’s concerned expression. “Oh, Simon, I think…you have a bit of toilet paper hanging out from your trousers.”

“What?” How did that happen - he last visited the loo at the gas station, and oh no that was like two hours ago, how -

Craning his body around, he is distracted by Pearl giggling.

“Made you look!”

“Uurrrgh shut uuuup!”

Pearl’s laugh is still as beautiful as summertime, but Simon would be damned if he’d let any of that on.

“It’s a good look. I like it. Simon the Very Sexy Rock Star. Cheers to that.” They clang their glasses.

As he says the words, he’s still not sure wether it’s a good idea to say them. “I mentioned to Robert that I was going to see you.”

Pearl takes an extra long sip and oh no, that long sip means it was a bad idea. “How is he?”

“Good. He’s like he usually is.” Notes and shreds of poems in his pockets and intense touring, only more shadows, patchy powder, more of everything, but no new words or music for a long time now, not since Pearl stopped being a member of the group.

“Well, good.” Pearl says and looks at a point behind Simon’s head. It’s ridiculous, but he’s suddenly glad there aren't any follow-up questions.

He laughs, throat dry. “Basically, Robert is fine.”

Pearl plays with a lock at his ear, seemingly thrown by the whole topic. There’s a small poster above his head on the mirror pillar advertising the poison dart frog exhibition. Big white letters announce FANTASTIC FROGS. Below the words there is a photo of a fat yellow frog.

Simon gulps down a few mouthfuls of rapidly warming beer, trying to drench his regret and to come up with something to say. _It was unfortunate. I love you. The whole thing went crazy_. He says the next best thing. “You have a frog on your head. Almost.”

"I do?" Pearl’s tattooed hands immediately go to his head. “ …No, it’s a scrunchie.”

“The poster. Knob.” A gentle nudge under the table and the spark is back in his eyes, thank god. Pearl turns to look at the big yellow frog. It almost looks like it’s smiling.

 --

-


	3. Carnage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pearl takes a walk and calls Simon, a conversation at the therapists', and band dynamics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems I can't stop writing about this bloody band!.. :D This came about after reading 'Cured', the reviews of 'Cured' + old interviews. Simon's quote 'I wish we would have been nicer to each other', the joke about zoophilia, and the convo with Porl and Lol at the pool are canon, everything else is made up. No sex or snogging in this chapter. :(

The sky over the desert is high and the air clear as glass. I'm inside a bell jar of bright light, a light I’ve never known before. Strange shapes shimmer in the heat and the colours are all new: indigo, taupe, and a sharp and blinding white - so white it floods my eyes and turns a pale turquoise. Scorpions and lizards rattle through dry vegetation. Bones lay strewn, some still wrapped in funeral rags. These are old burials, revealed in the hollows of caved animal dens. The drawing pad is not enough; my sketches move on to my palms, arms, the back of a parking ticket; they float out over the sand; stick-scraped markings in orange soil. I could get lost here, with gravel in my shoes and the sun in my eyes. Time passes slowly in the desert.

The story is that if you listen carefully to the dry silence, it’s possible to hear the sand sing. I’m excited to make out a faint hum before I realise it’s just my ears ringing.

—

The phone lights up; it buzzes against the marble countertop, the vibrations of plastic on stone travelling straight into Simon’s elbows. Only a few notes from the signal makes it through the din to reach his ears. It might as well be on mute, what with the racket his kids are making up on the mezzanine. In hindsight, it had been a mistake showing them how to plug in the amps.

Simon grudgingly puts down the Cadbury Flakes he was just about to enjoy and reaches for the phone. As the message "Incoming call PT” flashes on the screen, any thoughts of chocolate are gone in an instant. Heart thumping, his belly does a somersault as he swipes right.

There is a crackling sound, then: Pearl’s face seen from below, against an azur-blue sky.

“Hello Sozza.”

“Hello Pearl! It’s you! Hi!”

Simon. His voice. His face. I falter with the phone buttons. In some other life I might be able to handle these fucking things, but that is not this life. I want to switch to the other camera, the main one, not use the small one on the front. The small display wobbles. I’m not usually this clumsy but as I absorb Simon’s sudden presence my hands are no more nimble than paws.

“I’m not sure - “

The image disappears. The call has been aborted. Simon groans. Not an unusual event in the history of this particular caller. Maybe Pearl noticed a bird flying past and decided he needed to follow it. Maybe it was a rabbit this time. Perhaps his chakras needed an urgent re-alignment. Simon puts the phone down next to his coffee mug and tears open the Flake wrapper. He manages to polish off the entire chocolate bar in two bites before the phone flashes anew.

“Darling!”

  
“Hello Simon. Sorry, I pressed the wrong button. Look.”

Though it’s autumnal and miserably wet in Old Blighty, the sheer size and roundness of the world means it's sunny and warm somewhere else. It really is mind-boggling when one thinks about it. Simon watches as Pearl turns his phone around and a bright, overexposed landscape comes into view. It looks like a proper desert: cactuses, sand and rocks.

“That’s some lovely weather you got there!” Simon almost has to shout to be heard over his kids’ ambitious rehearsal. _Well fuck_. Mentally hauling a white flag, he exits the kitchen and heads towards the garage to get away from the racket. The plan works; he can only slightly hear them inside his Humvee with its doors closed.

“Sorry, had to move. Kids and guitars. You know how it is.” Simon raises his eyebrows apologetically, rolls his eyes to empathise. “Where are you anyway? What are you doing in a desert?”

His voice tingles up my spine and I have to close my eyes for a bit. Breathe in, breathe out. Just breathe. It’s strange how much my body wants him, still, this physical desire. In an instant he lies on top of me, heavy and warm, presses up against me in a narrow corridor, in the backseat of a car, his light seeking out my darkest corners, the smell of him, the taste of him. The shortest moments of us together. _Simon._ I let the wave of desire pass through me and roll out over the dunes.

Idly picking his nose, Simon waits for a response. Pearl probably can’t hear him. The camera shakes, and rolls, and takes a second adjusting itself to the bones and rags that are now the center of its focal eye, revealing solid shapes in a gradually darkening picture. Details emerge from the whiteness: A small cairn of stones, a horse skull peeking out, ribs strewn in a circle on the ground around it.

There is an eerie hum droning in the background, a sound not unlike a sedated Hammond organ.

“Can you see the bones?” Pearl’s voice comes through in staccato, syllables snatched away by short gusts of wind. “Wonderful, isn’t it.”

“Holy fuck. Is that a horse skull? What’s that sound?”

The camera moves in rhythm with Pearl’s steps, sand and gravel crunching underfoot. In a caved-in hollow more remains lie partly buried. The top of a cranium shines like an exotic egg. It looks it once belonged to a human. Simon sits up straight, grabs the phone with both hands. It _'s definitely_ human. Frayed rags has unravelled around it. They flap around in the wind like tiny banners, creating a macabre cranial nest.

“Fuck. What even _is_ that?“

There is no reply. Just the humming noise, and the wind battering the membranes of the tiny microphone. The camera moves to a bunch of cacti growing close to another cairn. Something black skitters away, crawls in under a rock. Pearl’s shadow gets into the shot as he turns away from the sun to zoom in on a thorny shrubbery.

“Where are you really, fucking hell.” Simon says, more to himself than to Pearl who apparently is having one of those days when phone calls doesn't have to entail two-way conversations. No need to talk when bringing one’s friends on silent walks through weird landscapes. Well, Simon's okay with whatever - talking, no talking. Phone calls with Pearl are usually surprising but never difficult.

He watches for another five minutes before the connection goes dead.

\--

Six minutes later, Simon's back on the phone and back in the desert. ‘I Just Drove Here Maybe Its An Old Burial Ground?’ doesn’t quite cut it as a proper explanation, but that’s all Pearl has to offer and Simon doesn’t really care anyway. Sipping lukewarm coffee, feet up on the dashboard, it's like a weird, slightly interactive movie is playing out on his phone as Pearl takes him on a walk to strangeness. Light from the desert fills the car, the background drone rising and falling. As what looks like a heap of ragged boat sails slides into view, Pearl’s voice emerges through the atmosphere.

“I saw Lol yesterday. He said to give you his regards.”

“Yeah, give mine right back at him.”

The image blurs momentarily into white as Pearl turns his phone around to wave into the camera. Simon raises his mug in a salute, suddenly self-conscious that he hasn't bother to shave properly and might come off looking extra old and puffy in the sallow garage light.

“Hello again Simon. What does you shirt say?”

“This? I dunno, it’s some ratty thing of Sarah’s. Not your Sarah, but my Sarah.” A warm spark of achievement kindles in his chest as Pearl snorts, amused, at the other end. The our-girlfriends-have-the-same-name-joke never gets old.

He looks down on the baggy tee, stretches it out to see better. “It says...’Who Needs Tits...’ oh yeah, and the back says ‘With An Ass Like This’”.

“Well...” Pearl smiles, straightens up as if he’s pushing his chest out off-camera.

“Nah darling, you’re perfect just as you are. By the way, what’s that weird background noise, it’s like a wind organ or summing?”

“Oh, that’s just my ears ringing.”

Simon chuckles. “I can’t actually hear _your_ tinnitus. Only my own. And this, well, isn’t that.”

He watches as Pearl silently turns the phone towards a big cactus with figs on it, not really expecting a reply. In Pearl’s world it’s perfectly feasible to hear the sound of each other’s damaged nerve cells. So why not. Suddenly it seems no stranger than having listened to Pearl's breathing and felt his heart beat, so many years before.

Taking another sip of now cold coffee, his mind strays back to two minutes ago. “About Lol. Like, maybe I should give him a ring, yeah? We haven’t spoken in a long while actually, come to think about it. A rather long while.”

“Yes. He'd appreciate that.”

Simon braces himself against the rolling feeling in his stomach. “I’ve been thinking a bit about it before, long before today actually. You know how I can be thick as pig-shit sometimes...”

The connection buzzes and crackles with Arizona winds and good old static. He waits, thumbs the handle of the coffee mug.

“So. I don’t know. Maybe I should apologise.”

“I have.”

The darkness in his gut aches and pinches, coils around itself in an ever tightening spiral. “You didn’t do anything. You have nothing to apologise for.”

“I _have_.” Pearl sounds distant, lost in the atmosphere. “Like you say, I didn’t do anything. I just stuck around.”

Simon rubs his face with the inside of his wrist. “It’s weird isn’t it, you go around thinking you’re this great bloke, or at least this reasonably decent bloke, and then you realise you’ve done things wrong and you’ve hurt people. And you sort of wish that, if you could go back and do it all over again, you would’ve done in differently. Because in the end, you just want everybody to be happy.”

“Yeah.”

On the other side of the world, the desert hums its eerie tune. The noise is mingling with a smattering of rain on the garage roof and the faint sound of a haphazard but enthusiastic version of the Pirates of the Caribbean-theme flooding out from the house. One of his kids has apparently moved over to the keyboard.

Picking at the hem of his tee, Simon sighs dejectedly. “It's like... I just wish we would’ve been nicer to each other.”

 

——

The therapist: How is your relationship today?

The client: We’re still friends. I see them from time to time.

The therapist: You say that you’re friends. In regard to the stories you told me before...Would you say that is usually the way friends behave towards each other?

The client: Well, I mean... it was all in jest really. Good fun. And anyway, it doesn’t matter now. Water under the bridge.

(silence)

The therapist: It would be understandable if you -

The patient: Look. I’m clearly explaining this wrong. There was a certain dynamic. I was no saint either. Maybe we all regret things we've done.

The therapist: But is 'friends' the right word?

The patient: More like family really. Albeit a dysfuncional family, but still. And you just don't let that go that easily.

(silence)

The patient: Well, I don't anyway.

 

— 1986:

All the voices blur, change to one voice. Lol is back from his alcohol-infused excursion and I don’t want to be myself. Scooting down on the sofa, I desperately search for someone who is not me. A mouse, a worm, anything. If I was a mouse I would fit perfectly into the space between one sofa cushion and the next. Maybe the cushions would be enough to keep the laughter away.

_You’re just a waste of space. Move. Yeah I stole your bottle, what are you going to do about it. Fucking bloody posers. Do something. Is he trying to get up? Oh, he is! He is!_

But it’s all right, isn’t it? I hide behind my book. Focusing on the book makes it bearable. Burgundy-red cover. _Dracula_. Boris recommended it, said it reminded him of home. I apply myself to the text as my tinnitus whine louder in protest, trying to block out the conversation around me. There’s a low ringing in my left ear, fading in and out, occasionally moving over to my right ear, giving off messages in Morse code that I can’t interpret.

There are flies in my brain. They crawl down my spine, gather in my heart where everything has gone numb. The book pages are yellow with age, frayed red leather binding.

A heart full of flies is useless. It’s incapacitated; buzzing instead of beating. I press my nails hard into the cover, making crescent-shaped marks. Burning. There’s a fire in the room. I press my scream hard into my palm, just as hard, my skin frayed and red like the cover of the book.

They laugh and stir gasoline in their drinks. Tearing at each other, fanning the flames.

But it’s all a joke, naturally. We’re having fun.

_Is Lol having sex with animals? Well, all his pets are dead._

More laughter.

On the page, Jonathan Harker asks: “ _Do you find me heartless?_ ”

It hurts, because my mouth is smiling. Aching gums, swarming chest. It’s both easy and satisfying to kick someone who’s on the ground. We who are still standing find an easy companionship.

_Hey drink some more, why don’t you. Useless and ugly. Get away from me._

One of the murder voices might be my own.

Boris calls me a dormouse but I’m not a dormouse. I’m formless and mouldable. Spineless. But he’s in on it, isn’t he? All in on the joke. He wants to be here, because he’s free to go, he hasn’t left, he could just quit, and he hasn’t, so surely - no - that’s faulty reasoning. Because he will never leave, this is his whole life, we're his family and Robert is his best friend (his best friend?). He’s not going to stop drinking either. It’s never going to end.

_If you raise the temperature slowly_

I don’t care. It’s no use.

_The frog doesn’t know that it’s being cooked_

Later I find him in the garden. He’s by the pool, dipping his feet in the leaf-speckled grey water. The garden is cold and devastated with abandoned bird nests in yellow trees and pebbles at the bottom of the pool, sharp light, deep autumn sky threatening to crash down and drown us both. Why did we stay in England to record this album, we should have gone to France, Spain... Even Germany. Anywhere but here.

I sit down beside him, heart buzzing. The water is a mire and the dead leaves already half-submerged.

Sensing his energy next to me, charred and raw, I turn away. He has just greeted me like I’m his friend. I’m too sad for this. Too ashamed. Instead of meeting his eyes I look down into the pool. One dirty leaf for every time I could have done something but didn’t, one sunken stone for every missed opportunity, the hugs I didn’t give, the words I don’t say. I could drown out here, burn to cinders.

I take his hand.

“Lol, I don’t think you can handle this alone." Right in this moment, it's him and I. We look at each other. "You need to get some help.”

I must kill the flies.

 

 


	4. autoluminescent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While making an effort to finish my "Chapter x of ?"- fics, I realised I had written a final chapter for this but it sat as a draft. Here it is :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: bird poop and vomiting in this one :)

“Without even thinking about it, I used to be able to fly. Now I'm trying to look inside myself and find out how I did it. ”

– Kiki (Kiki’s Delivery Service)

\-----

1991:

At the afterparty, they takes turns holding the MTV award. It’s a private function with a free bar; their own little cosy world of engineers and technicians and fanboys/fellow award recipients, created because they can. They can afford anything these days, with 30 million records sold and a string of ‘alternative’ hits, heavy MTV airplay notwithstanding. There are bands out there that are more famous than they are, but tonight Simon can't think of a single one.

There’s a gaggle of semi-famous people circling Robert. He smiles and poses for photos like the veteran he is, prize in a steady grip and with an undisclosed amount of good-quality coke burning holes in his pocket. Simon catches his eye and grins inwardly as Robert starts making his excuses.

The resulting drunken and coked-up blowjob in the Men’s is the perfect start of the night, as far as Simon is concerned. Robert’s tongue and lips are wonderfully warm and soft, and he never looks better than when he’s on his knees, his painted mouth busy, blue eyes looking up at Simon from under the black crow’s nest.

Porl’s face is like a mask when he and Robert emerges with the same shade of messy lipstick on both of their mouths. Simon ignores him, has no time for drama or sulky bandmates, at least not while sober. It sort of sucks, not being able to drink as much as he would like because of the meds he’s currently taking, but then again he’s straight-faced enough to notice how smashed the others get and enjoy the show. Great entertainment, and possibly great fodder for blackmail. Stealing Teddy’s drinks when he’s not looking and tickling a drunk Boris until he has to beg for mercy has never been so rewarding. 

Half an hour later, when Robert is huddling with Mary and some other girls he doesn’t know, his hair is gently pulled from behind.  

“Did he suck you off?” Porl says in his ear, breath moist and hot. “Now that’s sordid. Nasty, nasty -” he pauses for a quiet burp. “ - boys. In the loo.”

Simon turns just in time to steady his mate to avoid an accident. He more or less hangs off Simon, and it’s with a pang of excitement that he realises that, like the others, Porl is totally off his face. He must have drunk a lot since the last time Simon saw him tonight. His panda eyes are even more smudged and he’s got a cross-eyed look on that does nothing for his brave attempt to appear sober.

“What are you on about, you silly goose you? How did your good wife let you get into this state?”

“Come on.” Porl tugs on Simon’s arm and starts backing off towards the Men’s with a determination that is not matched by his balance. It’s obvious what he wants; hips swaying under two waist-tied shirts, and lips pursed in that way he always does when he wants to be kissed. Simon grins as he is treated to a drunken version of Porl’s ’come hither’-look. Four drinks ago it might have been both alluring and smouldering, but now it's mostly lopsided and smudged.

Hesitating, Simon takes in the bar with a quick glance. Robert is not within sight, so all clear on the R-factor.

But there is Janet, looking right at them with a bemused expression and her husband’s purse under one arm. Oops. He can picture the conversation playing out a minute ago: _‘Here honey, hold my purse, I’m just gonna go over to Simon and suck his cock for a bit. Be back in a jiffy._ ’

He raises his eyebrows in a question, and Janet smiles and shrugs her shoulders. _What can you do._

Well all right then. He lets himself be dragged off, sneaking a feel of Porl’s bum through the many layers of clothing.

 

is dipping slightly

to the left

but it’s okay, I can keep my balance Simon is my stedfast support in this too his light is mine

illuminating the room when he looks at me I’m beautiful

His hair is silver and gold where the spotlights are touching him where he is closest to the sky

I’m drunker than he is

my words come out a bit wrong

but he knows everything already how much he wants this too it’s been a long time

 

It’s rather cold in the cubicle and Porl’s breath is hot on his lips. Simon gasps as he is stroked, small warm hands crammed down inside his trousers. Dodgy old tiles and empty loo rolls decorating the floor. Porl assumes the same position Robert was in about an hour ago but it's very obvious he has no idea what he’s doing. But Simon's fly is open now and his underwear down so it's all good. A kiss on the head, then a hesitant lick, and oh yes, nice. Simon gasps as he is wrapped in tight warm velvet.

“’S this right?” Porl mumbles, running his hand up and down, closer to the tip with each stroke. The look of concentration on his face is both sweet and laughable. He's probably running through what Janet is doing to him every Saturday after their Book Hour, searching for clues what to do next. Quenching a snort, Simon tangels his fingers in his hair, trying to help out with the physicalities of this endeavour.

“Yeah, good, keep going.”

Porl’s mouth fits just right, wet and warm and perfect. Simon gives an involuntary jerk with his hips, pressing forward and there’s a choking sound. _Oops._ Porl backs off his dick and the beautiful feeling is replaced by cold air. Simon sighs. And this was going so well.

“You don’t have to do it with your mouth baby. I am _rather_ big after all.”

“No, I wanna….” It’s more of an attack this time, Porl grabs the back of his thighs and presses forward, making a valiant effort to fit as much as he can of Simon down his throat, and Simon barely has time to utter a warning word of  ‘Ouch, teeth..!’ before Porl gags and pulls off with a popping sound. He heaves, desperately slaps a hand over his mouth, heaves again, makes as if to turn away, but doesn’t quite manage before -

\- before he throws up about three pints of cider on the floor, and a bit on Simon’s trousers and boots too.

Now _that’s_ a proper mood killer. Simon can’t help but laugh as he side-steps out from the cubicle. The bathroom is emtpy. Well doesn't matter really. If there had been other punters, and they had stared or said something daft, he'd just punch them right out.

“Fuck babe, that was quite a lot of drink! Are you all right?”

“Yeah…” On his hands and knees, with a string of saliva anchoring him to the floor, Porl looks surprised more than anything. “I’m so, so sorry! Oh god.. It just came over me…”

“That was like half a keg! And what's that, over there, your dinner?” Simon tucks himself back in - blowjob is definitely off for now. “As much as you got out - oh no!"

He jumps back as Porl heaves again, completing the canvas with more solid elements.

"Bloody hell darling! That must be the baby food you got as a toddler." Simon laughs. “What a purge!”

 “I’m sorry I’m sorry sorry sorry” Porl mumbles, slumped on the floor and blushing profusely. “Sorry I didn’t - I fucked it up!”

“Hey.” He squats down, grabbing a bunch of paper towels on the way. “Here, wipe it off. It’s not the first time in the history of the world this has happened.”

“But….I’m your…you know.” Porl goes a deeper shade of red. “I’m supposed to know how to do these things.”

“You’re my what?” Oh, right. The bedroom talk. _Whore._ He’s almost forgotten. Fuck, that was, what, three years ago now? “Oh sweetness, you’re not my whatever, you’re my best girl. Hey, up from the floor we go.”

Piled up against a wall so as to not fall over, Porl gratefully accepts the plastic mug with cold water Simon has managed to produce. This is a first too: acting like the nanny for his drunk friends. Usually it's the other way around. Better get Janet so she can transport her drunken hubby home. Then it's open season on tickling Boris again.

—

 

2009:

Things I am not sure exists anymore, or maybe never existed:

\- mauve or lilac

\- my love for Janet

\- gravity

\- truly comfortable corsets

 

—

1989:

 

Up on the terrace, after another long celebration party, they watch the sun rise. Robert has more coke, and he’s in Simon’s lap, so everything is good and all right with the world.

They kiss for a while, unhurried, as the sun warms their faces, lipstick and messy hair getting everywhere.

Simon playfully chews on Robert’s earlobe and is rewarded with a giggle and hard fingers jammed into his ribs.

“Oi, git!”

“Well it serves you right. I saw you making eyes at Poz tonight.” Robert leans over and does a line, sniffing white powder off the back of their ‘Disintegration’ gold disc like a true connoisseur. “You see, the problem with Poz is that he thinks with his dick, always has been, always will be.”

This is how Robert gets when he’s jealous and not high enough. Reaching around his mate to open a bottle of vodka, Simon decides to aim for Happy Drunk Robert so they can have a laugh or a shag instead of trash-talking people not present.

Robert however is having none of Simon’s plans. “Turned my own sister into Yoko fucking Ono he did. Split up the group before we even got started.”

“Fuck’s sake.” Simon mumbles. No stopping Robert now. He mentally prepares for a long rant.

“I swear if he comes on to you again like that I’ll - “

Robert pauses, looks over Simon's shoulder at something behind him. “Uh, um…"

"What?"

"There's a bird...okay I'm not mental, but ...it’s so still….it’s like it’s _staring_ at us? I'm not mental!”

“A bird? Like a girl, or wha..?”

"No, in the tree over there! Look!"

Simon barely has time to turn around before something small and black swoops down over his head, flying so low it almost gets caught in Robert’s ample hairdo. Then the bird makes a sharp turn, rising above them.

‘Fuck!” Robert’s hand goes up to his coiffure. “I think it....it pooped in my hair!’

Simon laughs so hard he almost falls off the chair. “Oh FUCK. What a meanie.” The bird is circling them menancingly. Simon smiles up at it, raising the vodka bottle in a toast. The bird chirps.

“Better go wash that out before the interview sessions start in about, oh, four hours? ”

As Robert makes a beeline for the door, Simon follows the bird as it heads back to the tree. It’s dipping weirdly, cantering and wiggling about; like a plane with a brand new pilot behind the controls.

 

—————

2017:

 

Reflecting on the past, when were we the most happy? The phone is warm in my hand: Simon speaks of my new life and his old one. In an instant I remember a rooftop in Vienna: dancing together in the rain. I was wearing a fancy red jacket. the thrill I felt when the velvet got ruined and Simon peeled it off my shoulders. His lips were cold on my cheek when he said something that was important. He said something I’ve never forgotten.

I scrape along in the hot Arizona sand, drawings etched into the ground behind me and Simon’s wet hair in my mouth.

A few days after my ruined jacket: Janet on a pebbly beach, her belly curiously rounded as she strikes poses draped in a ratty towel. When she turns to me and into the photo her hair is aflame with sunset orange.

Here, the desert offers no glowing hues. Everything is bleached out and swept clean. Fresh. A new start.

I wonder when I will see either of them again.

Some mornings, the sun looks wrong outside our window, but then I remember it’s not the English sun anymore but a different celestial being. At night, the moon and the stars have taken up new positions. All the bodies in the sky are moving, and all the bodies in the world

earth

sun

moon

forever changing constellations

 

 


End file.
